What's Meant To Be
by Bottles
Summary: Adam becomes desperate. Two years later Charlie is barely hanging on, how will he deal with Adam's fate. Requested final chapter up. Dark elements, please read warnings inside. COMPLETED!
1. March 28, 1999

**Disclaimer:** Don't own The Mighty Ducks, except for in my happy dreams of Charlie and Adam and Disney can't take that from me. So ha!

**Author's Note/Warning:** This story contains several elements that may be unsettling to readers. It involves the ideas of slash and strong depression. There is also some mild lanuage. It's dark. You have been warned.

What's Meant To Be.

By Bottles

_Cause I wish the world that I wasn't me  
With no direction at all  
I'm losing faith in everything  
Blind my mind's eye and I'll see for the first time  
Hurtful words won't go away_

_I'll watch my dreams die off (as value's made clear)  
It hurts to believe that words are just words... without truth.  
_

_End this...  
Suffocate me.  
Slit my wrists pure, new again.  
Bleed me through these veins,  
Wiped clean with hopes of a new day._

_-Before, False Hope_

Adam's POV—

Everyone has things that they are ashamed of. Everyone has their secrets. Unfortunately not everyone's secret is like mine. Mine causes me to border on insanity everyday. The delicate threads of my existence depend on the reaction of my only love. Rejection would end me. That's why I hide it.

Eventually though I'm not going to be able to conceal it anymore. I love Charlie Conway. I know it's wrong. I know it's against human nature. I know that it is against the Bible. I also know that it makes more sense to me than anything has ever made in my life. One day I will tell him and then perhaps I can be normal again. Until then I content myself with admiring him from afar, sneaking quick glances whenever possible, bringing myself both pleasure and pain. My heart is constantly torn; a love nest of heaven and hell.

For the last six years I have admired Charlie, ever since he had the courage to welcome me to his Ducks. Two years ago however I realized that I didn't just admire my best friend; no, it was much deeper than that, I was in love. I am completely and totally in love with him. And it was slowly killing me.

Everyday I looked for an excuse to touch him. My skin burned to feel his against it; every simple interaction caused my body to go into a lust filled overdrive. I had to let him know of my affection threatening to run over like an ancient volcano suddenly awakened.

Now my heart only burns in anguish. A fire has been lit in my soul and it is slowly eating away at my insides; a fire that was sparked by one Charlie Conway.

_I waited for him one day after practice. The adrenaline giving me an extra boost, I managed to walk over to Charlie without about-facing and running as far away as possible. When we were alone I asked, "Charlie, how do you feel about me?"_

_He sighed and looked at me seriously, "Adam, you know that you are my best friend. I am completely over the conflict of freshman year and I do not hold you in the least bit responsible for anything that happened."_

_My courage was fleeting so I tried to get to the point, "Not like that Charlie, I mean romantically."_

_His mouth hung slightly ajar as he processed my previous statement. "What do you mean romantically? I love you like a brother and all Adam, but that's it. I'm not gay, if that's what you are asking," he replied thoroughly confused giving me a worried look. _

"_Are you sure that's how you feel?" I figured I had already dug my own grave I might as well lie in it. _

"_Adam, I think you are brilliant and charming, and if I should ever change to liking boys better, you would be my first thought." He gave me another worried glance. I hoped he could not see the severe disappointment wash over my face. _

"_It's okay Charlie. I'm fine. I just wanted to know," I had found the words to form a complete sentence. I walked away from him to be alone. _

_I just had my heart broken in the nicest way possible. Damn Charlie Conway and his politeness. Damn him for not ripping out my heart. Damn him for not stomping on it. Damn him for making me still love him. _

_After brooding quietly on the edge of the pond I decided to go back and make sure he understood that I was okay. I walked up silently listening to him talk to Guy. _

"_Guy, you will never believe who just professed their love to me."_

_I stopped, something told me not to interrupt this conversation. _

"_Who," questioned Guy's anxious voice._

"_Banks, isn't that scary." So much for not ripping out my heart. _

_Guy stood in disbelief. "Banks, is gay?"_

"_Apparently so, I can't believe he thought I would ever want him though." So much for not stomping on it. _

"_Wow." Guy was stunned._

"_I wish I could help him out," said Charlie, "But there's no way I'm going to be like that for him." Damn him for still making me love him. _

I ran from Charlie, knocking over Connie on my way. The knowledge that she had seen my tear-stained face and was probably on her way to Guy and Charlie only caused my legs to go faster. I would not suffer ridicule. I would not be without him. I had only one thing I could do.

The chill from the sharp blade startled me as I placed it up against my wrist. I was surprised at how little it hurt as I jabbed it into my soft unmarred flesh. Perhaps it was the aching in my soul, in my heart, whatever it was it over powered the physical pain I should have been feeling. The rich blood was now flowing freely from one wrist as my shaking hand started to mutilate the other. Metal met flesh in a clash that the latter just could not win.

Ripping into my precious veins I only once questioned my decision. I had nothing to live for. What did I have? Hockey? I could never play it again. Never. Not without thinking of him, not without my heart breaking all over again. He is the only one who could save me. If it's meant to be then he will rescue me before it's too late. But he won't because he doesn't care.

I lay down for the final time on the cold blood-covered floor with only thoughts of him filling my mind. Him getting married, him having children, him growing old. He has a future, I had a past. Him welcoming me to the Ducks, him giving me his spot during the Junior Goodwill Games, him apologizing to me after the varsity conflict. The good days were over and now I can not go on. If it's meant to be then he will rescue me before it's too late. But it's not, and that's why I am sitting here alone on a cold tiled floor, there is no prince coming to rescue me. It's just me, hurt, loneliness, and cold.

**Author's Note II:** Whoa, that was a bit darker than I originally intended. I decided that after the happy Chadam fiction that I had been writing it was time for some of the dark angst that I am better known for. I do still want to know what everyone thinks of this so please leave me a review. Please remember that I warned beforehand of the darkness of this fic.


	2. March 27, 2001

**Disclaimer:** Don't own The Mighty Ducks, except for in my happy dreams of Charlie and Adam and Disney can't take that from me. So ha!

**Author's Note:** This story contains several elements that may be unsettling to readers. It involves the ideas of slash and strong depression. Also there is reference to drug and alcohol abuse as well. Oh and language, I forgot the foul language. It's dark. You have been warned so please don't flame me.

What's Meant to Be

By Bottles

_So long ago, I don't remember when  
That's when they say I lost my only friend  
Well they said she died easy of a broken heart disease  
As I listened through the cemetery tree_

_I'm so alone, and I feel just like somebody else  
Man, I ain't changed, but I know I ain't the same  
But somewhere here in between the city walls of dying dreams  
I think her death it must be killing me_

_-The Wallflowers, One Headlight_

Charlie Conway, already awake, rolled over at the sound of his alarm clock. He looked in the mirror only to verify what he already knew: that he looked bad, although bad was not even close to describing what Charlie had become. Sleep deprivation was obvious in the dark circles that framed his sunken eyes, but perhaps even more frightening than the circles surrounding his eyes were his eyes themselves. Two years ago their bright sparkle could not be ignored by anyone who met him; they held the sparkle of someone with a limitless future and all the options of the world at his fingertips. Now the sparkle was gone, replaced by a desolate look that would send chills down the backs of all those who dared to meet his eyes. A week old beard littered his narrowed face and his neglected hair lay flat against his head.

Charlie forced himself to get out of bed and put on clothes. His old shirts now hung loosely around his withered frame, while a belt was necessary to prevent his pants from falling to the ground. He knew that he shouldn't do it; perhaps it was the lack of sleep or tomorrow's date, whatever it was Charlie threw his inhibitions to the wind and opened the drawer. His vacant eyes fell upon a piece of green fabric that he could now only look at once a year— an old green jersey, 99, Banks. Charlie's eyes closed as he was bombarded by memories.

"_Hey sweetie," Guy said as Connie walked up, her face etched with worry. _

_Charlie also greeted Connie but she seemed to ignore their greetings, "What's wrong with Adam? I just saw him sprinting from this direction. I think he might have been crying." _

_Guilt and fear possessed Charlie as he thought of his previous conversation with Guy and realized Adam must have overheard. He took off towards Adam's dorm without a word. Endorphins surged through his body, aiding him in running like lightning streaking across the sky. He ascended the stairs and reached Adam's locked dorm room. There he pounded on the door, trying to force the lock open but it stayed in place. _

"_Come on Adam, open the damned door. I know you're angry, but I just want to talk," he firmly yelled through the barricade. Frustrated, Charlie tore downstairs and found Dewayne, Adam's roommate, in a study lounge. _

"_Dewayne," Charlie panted, "I need your room key."_

"_Why," questioned a concerned Dewayne as he rummaged through his messy multitude of papers, before finally locating the key. _

_Charlie replied, "I pissed off Adam and now he's not opening the door."_

_Satisfied with Charlie's answer, Dewayne tossed him the key and looked back to his homework._

_Growing continually angry at Adam's childish behavior, Charlie stomped back up the stairs. Slamming the door open he yelled out, "Alright Banks, I've finally got in here. I know you overheard me but it's not like you think." He looked around the room without seeing him. "Damn it Banks, you better be in the bathroom because I went through a lot of fucking trouble to get in here." _

_Charlie heard the sound of running water in the bathroom and strode in the direction of the closed door. He thought to himself, 'Sometimes I wish I didn't have to deal with all this drama,' before opening the door. The sight that met his eyes had been permanently etched into his retina and haunted his subconscious for the next two years._

_Adam Banks was lying on the floor covered in his own blood. His obviously slit wrists dangled over the ledge of the shower into crimson water, and resting in his lap was his green jersey, 99, Banks. _

Charlie fingered the jersey and lapsed into a torrent of self-hatred and loathing. He knew it was his fault. He knew that Adam had not only been rejected by him but felt his ridicule when Charlie should have been supporting him instead. He knew that if he had run faster or been a better friend he could have saved him. He could have rescued him. Charlie realizing that he was tearing up slammed the drawer shut and punched the closest wall. He hated himself for what he had done; he had killed his best friend.

_After the news of the suicide seeped out everyone was more sympathetic to all the Ducks, but to no one more so than Charlie Conway. Everyone knew that Adam and Charlie had been close friends and that Charlie was the one who had found him. They all were personally distraught but no one, other than Guy, knew all the reasons Charlie blamed himself. The Ducks kept telling Charlie that it wasn't his fault and that he didn't need to blame himself. Sick of the assurances that he was not to blame, Charlie began to push all his friends out of his life. Charlie tried to avoid everything that reminded him of Adam and how he had betrayed him. The next step was quitting hockey and soon Charlie couldn't even be at Eden Hall. The story of Adam Banks was becoming a legend, complete with myths about why he took his life. Charlie had to escape. _

"Fuck," cried out Charlie when he realized that hitting a concrete wall was not the best idea in the world. He opened another drawer that contained numerous brown bottles of prescription drugs until he located the pain relievers he was looking for. After swallowing a few of the pills Charlie made his way outside to go to class.

Two years ago when Charlie walked to class he was greeted by almost everyone he walked past. Always surrounded by a few of his closest friends, he was the most well-liked boy in all of the school. Now Charlie walked through the quad alone—solitary and broken. He was a shell of his former self. He had transferred to Cretin-Derham Hall outside of St. Paul, Minnesota the fall following Adam's death. Here the students looked at him with pity. Everyone knew his story; they figured he did not want to associate with anyone, so they avoided him.

Charlie returned to his room that afternoon with a determined resolve. He knew what he needed to do. After spending ten minutes trying to locate and clean his disregarded rollerblades, he put them on and headed out the door.

It was nearing dusk when Charlie arrived at his destination: Lakewood Cemetery in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Charlie took off his rollerblades in an attempt to pay respect to those who had gone before him. He surveyed the rows, prying to the depths of repressed memories in hopes of easily locating his ultimate destination.

_It was an overcast day. Clouds hung low in the sky as they seemed to be mourning along with the crowds. School had been cancelled and rides provided for all students of Eden Hall who were planning to attend the funeral of Adam Banks. Many girls clad in black wept openly as young men in suits held them closely, pushing back their own tears. Long queues of grievers were expressing their sympathies to the family and close friends. A long figure stood on the outskirts of the crowd. He kept his head down and stood between two old Norway pines looking down a hill to where the mourners congregated. Though he stayed in the shadows, his heart ached more than anyone else the dismal day everyone said their final goodbyes to Adam Banks. _

Seeing the two Norway pines, Charlie walked down the slope below and sought out a relatively unweathered grave.

_Adam Robert Banks  
May 16, 1982 - March 28, 1999  
Beloved son and friend, taken too soon.  
May you watch over us until we see you again._

Charlie crouched before it, tired from the enormous strain he had just put his body through by skating the distance. He thought how ironic it was that he found himself here talking to a grave. He used to joke how people only did that in movies. Irony always was a bitch.

"Hey Adam," Charlie began to speak out loud, "I don't know if you can hear me or not, but if you can I bet you are wondering where I have been the last two years. I was here for the funeral but I just could bring myself to look your parents in the eye. I didn't want those who gave you life to be in contact with the one who took it away." Two years of unshed tears began to pour forth from his eyelids as he continued, "God Adam, I hate you so much for leaving me like this. I wish that I could have just done something. I know that it's all my fault. I know. I would give anything I have to take back the words I said that day. Why did you have to leave? I didn't love you like you wanted me to Adam, but dammit I loved you. I still love you. You were my best frie—" Charlie's throat was wracked with sobs and he couldn't force any more words out. Instead he fell to his knees, hands braced against the headstone, pouring out his soul.

An older woman walked by and paused beside Charlie's crumpled frame. She placed a hand on his shoulder and said, "Are you okay?" When Charlie did not respond verbally but suppurated harder she tried one final time to soothe him, "You'll see them again. One day. Until then all you can to is wait," she surveyed the headstone, "Many of my friends died young so long ago." Charlie calmed himself long enough to look at the woman and into familiar eyes. The woman's eyes held emptiness that Charlie had only seen in his own. He could feel the pain and loss in her life, but not a ray of happiness poked through. He rationalized with himself that if this woman could survive all these years without her friends he could make it without Adam. But then again, she didn't have their blood on her hands. Disturbed by her presence Charlie quickly rose, rollerblades in hand, and walked to the nearest bus that would take him to St. Paul. He turned around for one last look at Adam's grave and shivered upon seeing the reddish hue the setting sun cast upon it.

The brisk March air chilled Charlie to the bone as he walked back into his dorm room. He knew the buses were going to stop running in two hours and if he wanted to do everything he had planned and make it back to Lakewood before then he was going to have to work quickly. He stripped himself of his bulky clothing and took a rapid yet thorough shower. Then he shaved, styled his hair, and put on cologne. Next he put on one of his better pairs of khaki pants and a clean button up shirt. Gazing at the finished product in the mirror, Charlie, other than the dark circles and thin structure had to admit that he almost looked back like his former self. After throwing several items into an oversized green and yellow duffle bag and scribbling a quick note, Charlie Conway walked out the door, almost like a new person with a bounce in his step that had been missing for a long time.

While Charlie sat on the bus he sorted through his duffle bag, he reached inside and fingered a full brown prescription bottle. A conversation with Casey Conway echoed through his mind.

_Charlie sat exasperated on his bed with the phone to his ear, the voice of his mother blaring loudly through the phone, "Charlie, did you go to your meeting with Dr. Leery today?"_

_Charlie had considered skipping the meeting completely but he knew that if he missed the appointment he would have to suffer the wrath of his mother. "Yes Mom. I went, we talked, and I really don't see why I have to go."_

"_Charles Conway, you know as well as I do that you need these psychiatric treatments. You haven't been sleeping and you have all these anxieties. Your stepfather and I can not continue to pull you out of schools and activities because you are not dealing with your problems. Did he change your medications?"_

"_No Mom," Charlie sighed, "he just told me to keep taking the Nembutal." Charlie stood up and threw the full bottle of pills into his top drawer. He then went to his closet and pulled out a half empty bottle of Absolut Vodka and a shot glass. He always said these conversations with his mom drove him to drink; then again everything drove him to drink these days. He chuckled silently thinking how much his mother would disapprove of his slight alcohol problem that was developing. _

_Casey continued to lecture Charlie about the necessity of taking the medicine and Charlie continued to take shots. It was a great game he had created, every time he said 'yes Mom,' he would take a shot of vodka. By the time he finally hung up with his mother Charlie was quite drunk indeed. He laid down on his bed and entered a dreamless sleep. Charlie's doctors always said the Nembutal would help him sleep better but Charlie always felt that he didn't deserve to be without the pain. True the alcohol helped him sleep but it always compensated for this with a raging hangover in the mornings. _

Charlie was pulled out of his memory when the inertia of stopping jerked him forward and allowed him to see that he had reached his stop. Once more his feet carried him to a spot down the hill from two Norway pines, Adam's final resting spot. Charlie sat down and began to unload his duffle bag: candles that were necessary for light around the gravesite, glasses, a full fifth of cheap tequila, champagne, and a brown bottle. Charlie immediately went to the tequila and turned the bottle upwards. After 15 minutes he had consumed three quarters of it and was becoming extremely inebriated. The intoxication allowed Charlie the courage to begin to speaking.

"Are you happy Adam, are you? Can you see me," he screamed out vehemently. "Do you see what my life is? It's entirely your fault. Why in the hell do you have to go out and kill yourself? I told you I was sorry, why won't you let the pain end? The last two years of my life are wasted. I spent those years feeling bad for what I thought I had done and trying to reconcile with myself. Now I've realized that there really is nothing I can do. The guilt is stronger than any feeling that could consume me Adam. Some days I wish I could have just told you I was gay and really meant it, but couldn't Adam, I'm really not gay. But dammit I love you. I would do anything for you. I will die for you. You are that special to me."

Charlie took out the brown bottle and dropped six all yellow capsules with the word "Abbott" inscribed upon them into his hand. He had researched and read a heavy dose of Nembutal was 200mg. He had decided that 600mg would be strong enough to serve their purpose, not to mention all the alcohol he had imbibed. He then took both glasses and filled them with champagne he had procured from a local grocer. Charlie placed one on top of Adam's gravestone and held the other up in the air.

"To you Adam." The wind carried Charlie's last words across the vacant cemetery as he washed six yellow capsules down his throat with a glass of champagne.

Charlie Conway laid down in the quiet darkness clutching only an old fabric in his arms. A green jersey, 99, Banks.

**Author's Note II:** I wasn't really planning on continuing this but then someone mentioned something about a sequel and then the plot bunnies started eating away at my soul until I wrote this. I'd like to thank everyone who reviewed the previous chapter and especially no banksie for betaing and dealing with me as I bitched about the chapter. Although I admit that I really like how this chapter turned out. So please review and tell me what you think.


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